


New Year's Eve Nightcap

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Rated mature for insinuation of what's to come, Romance, giddy good times all around, pun intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley decide to ring in the New Year with an elaborate twelve course feast at the Mayfair flat. But by the end of it, they're left with a bottle of champagne and nothing to pair it with....Well, nothing till Crowley gets up from his seat to fetch said bottle and Aziraphale gets a glimpse of the delectable demon he married ...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	New Year's Eve Nightcap

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompts champagne and Auld Lang Syne.

“Dear _Lord_!” Crowley chortles, sliding down his chair, relaxing so completely, gravity begins to pull him under. “I don’t think I’m ever going to move again!”

“How many was that?” Aziraphale asks, scooting up in his own seat so he doesn’t suffer the same fate as his husband. With a head full of alcohol and a belly full of food, he’s less likely to be able to get up than Crowley, who can change into a snake at will.

This isn’t to say Aziraphale hasn’t tried the transformation once or twice. He simply doesn’t have the knack. His last attempt resulted in him becoming a hideous half-reptilian half-mangled-bird-horse hybrid that even he as a Principality, tasked with protecting life on Earth, might have booted off the side of Noah’s Ark for the sake of all humanity.

“Twelve full courses,” Crowley responds, belching obscenely after. “Two bottles of wine and nine individual cocktail accompaniments. I’m not too sure we can top that!”

“That sounds like quitter talk to me,” Aziraphale mumbles. “When do we break open the champagne?”

“I think now is as good a time as any. It’s nearing midnight. We should be Auld Lang Syne-ing soon and all that.” Crowley slips the remaining distance off his chair, his body and limbs pooling on the floor, then leaps to his feet with an otherworldly dexterity. “But what shall we eat it with, hmm? We’ve already finished desert.”

“ _Twice_!” Aziraphale snorts.

“I’m sure we can come up with something. We’ve got fruit left … caviar … a wedge of gruyere …” Crowley strolls to end of the table, taking inventory of the leftovers, and retrieves the bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in its silver bucket of ice. Aziraphale watches him, eyes traveling along the waves of his husband’s flowing red hair to his playful yellow eyes, his ever-working mouth, the column of his neck, his angular collarbone peeking through the split halves of his partially unbuttoned silk shirt, down down down his chest and abs to his swaying hips, which seem to detach from his body with every unsteady step. “Champagne pairs well _everything_ ,” Crowley exposits, grabbing two flutes on his way back to his husband’s chair even though he knows full well they’ll probably just drink from the bottle. “Even the more … _exotic_ fare.”

Aziraphale hums between pinched lips, gaze glued to the black snake’s head buckle of Crowley’s belt, the enticing bulge underneath. Aziraphale licks his lips.

What more exotic fare could there be than a demon’s cock in his mouth?

That might be the alcohol talking. They’ve had a lot of it tonight. But he doesn’t feel so much drunk as he feels _tempted_.

Dizzy with sin.

Gluttony in particular.

And _lust_.

But it’s at no effort on his husband’s part other than the fact that he happens to be present.

And, hopefully, _willing_.

“I don’t know about you,” Aziraphale says, rising from his seat to quickly grab Crowley’s hips and sit him down in his place, “but I think I’ve come up with an idea for one last, exquisite meal of the night. Would you mind indulging me?”

“Possibly,” Crowley replies, a grin on his lips that hints he might be savvy to what Aziraphale means. He settles sideways, draped awkwardly over the armrests but he manages to make it work to his advantage. With his neck bent to the side, his body slack, and his legs spread, he couldn’t look more like a feast if he tried. “Mind filling me in?”

“Why don’t you get started on that champagne, my dear,” Aziraphale says, dropping to his knees, reaching for that snake’s head buckle, “and you’ll find out.”


End file.
